


by the sword

by pprfaith



Series: Wishlist 2015 [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But there is no porn, Community: wishlist_fic, Gen, I think I meant to write 'no plot', Methos is not civilized, Not Beta Read, Prompt Fic, There was a porn tag and i have no idea how that happened, darkish, sorry - Freeform, with a spot of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:32:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Methos finds Richie first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	by the sword

**Author's Note:**

> For _violetablood_ who asked for exactly what the summary says: Methos getting Richie first. It's not as divergent as I wanted it to be, but, well. I hope you like it anyway.

+

The kid almost steals his sword. 

Which is actually fairly impressive for two reasons. One, no-one has noticed the sword Methos routinely keeps hidden on his person in several centuries. As a matter of fact, the last time anyone noticed it without the unfair advantage of _knowing_ he had to have one around _somewhere_ was shortly before Byron and that whole mess. 

Two, the kid gets close enough to honestly deserve the ‘almost’ in that sentence, even with the faint buzzing he sends down Methos’ spine, all crunchy, young and still mortal. If he were anyone else and the sword any less important to his continued survival, the kid might actually have gotten away with it. 

Hell, if he’d gone for anything but the sword, Methos would have _let_ him. Talent like this deserves the occasional reward. 

Alas, not if the reward in question is his sword. 

Also, he’s definitely detracting points for the boy being stupid enough to try and steal from a man casually lugging around a _concealed sword_. 

So here they are, the kid’s skinny wrist in Methos’ unrelenting grip, twisting just to be an asshole, and the kid, almost on his knees, trying to accommodate the unnatural angle, babbling a mixture of apologies, denials and curses. 

His mouth, it turns out, isn’t half as clever as his fingers. Methos, can’t help the derisive snort leaving him. It doesn’t fit at all with Adam Pierson, mild-mannered researcher, working his way up the ranks of the Watchers, but then, Adam’s reaction to this would be a lot of stuttering and panicking and really, how boring. 

“Shut up, kid,” he orders, and the boy, all curls and big eyes, actually does, if only out of surprise. 

He blinks, takes a deep breath and goes right back to babbling. “Look, man, I’m sorry, okay? I was just… I bumped into you, it was an accident, I wasn’t trying to, like, rob you or anything, that would be stupid, right, why would I rob a guy like you? Ha ha ha.”

Another snort. “You can stop anytime now, kid.”

“Yeah, well, you could also stop trying to break my wrist, that’d be really cool, man,” the boy snaps back and oh, look at that, clever hands, stupid mouth, and a fire in his belly. 

This is getting interesting.

Almost regretfully, Methos lets go. Immediately, the little scamp starts clocking escape routes, only for his gaze to meet Methos’ and then he just… stops. Drops the hand that was rubbing his bruised wrist, sinks back down from his toes until he’s flatfooted. Not running. His shoulders slump and he visibly fights the urge to sink into himself, to tense up for what he thinks is coming. 

All from just a look at Methos’ face, darkly amused and maybe, maybe, anticipating a little chase. A little hunt. It’s been so long since he’s had a bit of honest fun. He may not be Death anymore, these days (and oh, oh, sometimes he still misses it), but he is still a man born long, long before what this day and age likes to pass off as morality. 

By today’s standards, he is a savage and Adam should hide that, Adam should cover that up, should soften his eyes and the slope of his spine, should make him harmless. That is, after all, his express _purpose_. Methos created Adam to slip him on like a costume. 

But Adam isn’t in right now, the adrenaline surge of the kid managing to sneak up on him has driven him off and – no. That’s a lie. If Methos were that easy to startle out of a cover, he’d be long since headless. 

He’s intrigued by this boy, all blue eyes and jaded innocence, and that’s why he’s let the costume slip, just a little. 

And the boy noticed. More than that, the boy _recognized_. 

“Look, man,” he suddenly blurts, squaring his shoulders out of that instinctive slump. “If you’re gonna get nasty with me, do it. Otherwise, no harm no foul, right?” He holds up his hands, palms out, backs off a few steps. 

Methos considers letting him go. He should. Adam is a solid identity. He can get a decade out of him, if he tries. Right now, he’s putting that at risk. Keeping the kid around, becoming his teacher, it’d ruin the entire façade way too quickly. 

But. “How old are you?”

“What?” 

“How old are you?”

“Are you, like, propositioning me?” the kid asks, quiet and wide-eyed again, but this time not out of fear or shock. Shame, maybe. 

“If I were, I wouldn’t be asking your age since it’s painfully obvious you’re not eighteen. So. How old are you?”

“Seventeen.” They’re both surprised at the straight answer.

“And what’s your name?”

Here, the boy balks in earnest. “I’m not telling you my name!”

Methos rolls his eyes. “Why? Are you afraid I’ll find you and twist your arm?” he asks, deliberately dropping his gaze to the rapidly bruising wrist hanging by the boy’s hip. 

“No.”

“Come on,” he cajoles, vaguely aware that he sounds far more predatory than he usually allows himself. “Tell me.”

When that seems to have no effect, he adds, “Or I call the cops. Your choice.”

“Richie,” the kid bites out, angry enough to spit nails. 

“Richie. Seventeen. Living on the streets, or close to it, I assume.”

A sullen look is his only response. Honestly, this boy is delightful. 

“Richie. How do you feel about dinner?”

“In general, or with you?”

“What do you think?” 

“Let me guess,” the little smart ass demands, “if I say no, you call the cops?”

“And a quick study, too,” Methos praises before, finally, holding out his hand and offering his own name. “I’m Adam, by the way.”

Well, _one_ name.

Richie stares at the offered appendage as if it might bite him, but obediently follows when Methos waves for him to get a move on.

“Why are you doing this, man?” he asks, after a minute of uncomfortable silence.

“What? Feeding the pick pocket who just tried to steal a priceless family heirloom from me?”

“Why are you lugging it around, anyway? And in such a weird way? Is there actually an extra pocket sewn into your coat?” 

He didn’t take the time to figure out the harness before trying to get his hands on the sword? “How very sloppy of you. Be happy I caught you. You probably would have sliced off your hands otherwise.”

“You mean it’s sharp!” Richie looks aghast.

“It’s a weapon, kid.”

“Yeah, but, like, a sword. Those things are just for, like, decoration or something, these days, aren’t they?” He looks adorably confused and, in his confusion, has forgotten to be a belligerent teenager at Methos. 

“Which is why I carry it around in a special sheath,” he deadpans in response. It’s more than he should say. Actually, this whole conversation is a mistake. He should be drawing the kid’s attention _away_ from the sword, not onto it, but, but, but. The attempted theft has his blood beating just fast enough to be feeling a little reckless. 

And it’s not like the boy is a real risk. If he figures something out and threatens Methos – or rather, Adam – with it, Methos can just break his little neck. In the immortal words of Vonnegut: so it goes. 

“You mean you actually use that thing?!” Richie sounds awed instead of terrified now. Children these days. Really. They’re closer to barbarism than they have been since Columbus misread a map and hit up the wrong continent. It’s delightful. 

While the boy is still flailing over that realization, Methos takes a moment to seriously think over what he’s doing. Is he actually considering taking this child, a pre immortal, at that, as a student? He hasn’t even died yet. Isn’t even fully grown. 

He’s uncouth, unsubtle, unlikely to be able to keep his mouth shut about anything and terribly, terribly excitable. Like a puppy. 

Silas was like that, on his better days. 

He could just buy the boy dinner and send him on his way with a few suitable threats. 

Or he could buy him dinner and then break his neck and send him on his way with a few suitable warnings and a few phone numbers. 

Amanda would love a new student, he’s sure. 

Or he could do what he hasn’t done since Byron (and remember how that turned out?) and keep the boy. 

He could tell him what he is, make a great revelation of it. I live forever, and eventually, so will you. Perhaps it’s cruel, to tell a mortal all that they might become. It’d take away any value, any sort of worth a mortal life has and drive anyone into death’s arms that much faster. 

On the other hand, not telling someone and letting them die a dramatic, awful death, is, well. Dramatic. Also, awful. 

Methos suspects that he’s terrible at this. There has to be a reason most of his students went a bit kooky within a century of their first death. 

So. Abandoning Richie Seventeen to his fate seems like the wisest choice. Going back to Adam Pierson, living out a boring decade, maybe a year or two more. Screwing with the Watcher’s files in any way he can. It’d be good for a few giggles at least until the next World War. That one time I changed the files to make it look like Darius was Methos, ha, ha, what a laugh. 

Right. He’ll put the boy back where he found him, then, and make sure he knows what will happen if he tells anyone about Adam with the sword. 

Except then, of course, he has to go and ask, “Man, are you okay?”

Methos blinks. “Of course I am.”

“Really? You kind of spaced there.”

“You do remember,” he demands, idly, “that you tried to rob me and I threatened to call the police less than ten minutes ago, don’t you? Why the sudden concern?”

For a moment, Richie seems to seriously consider the question. Then he shrugs it off. “I didn’t. You didn’t. So why not, right?”

Why not, indeed.

Why not?

A hundred reasons. 

Is there a chance any of them may lead to death and/or dismemberment?

Yes. 

Does he care?

Not likely. 

That’s the art of living forever: not caring that you might not. Methos learned long ago that there is a marked difference between living and surviving and while surviving is really very nice, it’s also really very boring. Adam Pierson boring, in fact. 

He sighs. 

Rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

“Why not,” he agrees with the boy.

Why not?

+

(Less than five hours later, Richie wakes with a splitting headache in an unfamiliar bed and thinks _bender_ right up until he remembers Adam, his sword and the strange, almost fond way he stared at Richie over dinner. 

Also, that dark alley.

“Man,” he calls, jerking in place when the man in question appears in the doorway, accompanied by a wave of agony in Richie’s skull. “Did you kill me?”

Adam smirks.)

+


End file.
